


What Else But To Pretend (Until It's Too Real)

by hallowgirl



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: (Politically), (kind of), Affectionate Insults, Almost Kiss, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Camerband, Cross-Party Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hate to Love, M/M, Opposites Attract, Osballs, Rival Relationship, Rival Romance, everyone can see it, really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4654335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hallowgirl/pseuds/hallowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sometimes, when they walk back to their hotel rooms, they linger for a moment, their hands brushing each others' elbows and George pretends that Balls' eyes don't linger on his mouth for a moment and inside his hotel room, he pretends he doesn't wonder what it would be like."<br/>They try not to let it fit past the figures and the business and the arguments, and they try not to let themselves think why. Written for prompt about relationship between George Osborne and Ed Balls. Osballs and background Camerband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Else But To Pretend (Until It's Too Real)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt about the relationship between George Osborne and Ed Balls, after it turns out they've had an odd, kind of twenty year long friendship. And quite a bit of background Camerband.

They never plan it. That's the most important thing; they never plan it, even when they text each other with brief messages-not too short and not too long, just the right amount of friendly chit-chat, with enough business details mixed in that they can pretend that's the only connection, that theirs' is a friendship engineered by work and business and duty, and there's nothing there, lurking under the surface.  
Osborne is everything Ed should hate-born with a silver spoon shoved down his throat, a life shoved into place at Cameron's side, the two of them in their suits that would cost more than some would make in a year, with those little looks the two of them share that make Ed roll his eyes and want to tell them to sod off and squeal over One Direction like the pair of teenage girls they obviously are. It should be fucking _easy_ to hate Osborne, from the first time they shook hands, Osborne's too-wide smile with those eyes, so dark that for a moment Ed thought some cosmic mistake had been made that had led Osborne to be born with pupils and no colour.   
He knows Osborne thinks Ed hated him that first meeting-the way he shook hands with him, dropped Osborne's palm as if it was burning hot, turned away after just a few sentences of Osborne's in that precise, clipped, fucking _Osborne_ way he has of speaking. Ed lets him think it because he doesn't feel like telling him the truth and it's an easier story to tell himself than to remember the moment he had to look away because he'd felt that sharp spike in his chest at the moment Osborne began speaking, that sharp rising of feeling at the sight of Osborne's smile, that feeling of bloody _liking_ the man, and he couldn't afford that because even then they came from different worlds.  
But they had to be friends-not friends, no, not friends, because friends are some foreign concept that don't exist when you're in the Treasury, struggling to climb the ranks-they had to work together, they had to talk and Ed couldn't spend his life turning away from Osborne. No matter what he wanted to do, he had to keep looking at him and sometimes, his mouth would betray him and he'd be dissolving into laughter at some sharp little line from Osborne about the week's figures and then he'd tell himself he wasn't fucking _Cameron_ and do his best to blank Osborne's next few jokes, which should have been easier once he told himself Osborne was working for the enemy.  
It should have but it didn't and a part of Ed told himself he hated Osborne for that, when of course, he didn't, and that just made him say it even more.  
He doesn't know when they started making it to restaurants or bars for late-night drinks. Perhaps it was the first time they met at that summit, when Ed would never have admitted to anyone that there was a part of him that was fucking terrified, and when he saw Osborne, the wave of relief was so great that he found himself giving the other man a grin-a grin, a fucking _grin_ -and greeting him with a clap on the shoulder that was probably the hardest blow Osborne had ever received in his life.  
They'd been sharing a drink when Osborne had glanced at him from under those ridiculously long eyelashes-Osborne's practically a fucking girl, Ed tells himself and is too tipsy to care that he can barely pretend to believe it-and said _You ever think we're the last people who should be looking after people's money?_  
Ed hadn't believed he'd said it-Osborne's one of them, for God's sake, a _Tory_ , and Cameron's right hand man, and this is what they believe, all of them-but Osborne's looking at him, with an eyebrow arched, waiting for an answer, and it's the drink and that look that makes Ed drain his glass and say "We're probably the worst fucking people I can imagine, to be honest."   
Osborne just nods and stares into his glass. _No wonder the country hates us_ , he says quietly but then the barmaid asks if they want more to drink and the words are forgotten in a night of drinks and Osborne's eyes and the fact that God, he and Osborne are actually drinking together.  
The words are forgotten but underneath it's there, the fact Osborne actually thinks the same as him about one issue, and Ed doesn't think about what the hell that means.  
*  
It becomes a habit even though they don't say it. They're in opposition to each other now, and whenever Ed watches Osborne at Cameron's side, he rolls his eyes at their ridiculously obvious best-friendship-for God's sake, the two of them are one step off wearing matching friendship bracelets-and whenever they have to talk, they keep it friendly but they always edge a few figures into the air between them, just to remind each other what they're there for. Just to remind themselves, Ed thinks, but sometimes it's too easy to forget.  
When they're at summits or meetings, they make a habit of the bars, though. Just business, Ed tells himself-better to keep an eye on the Tories for Gordon, but business never makes its' way into these conversations by unspoken consensus, the same way they never discuss these sessions of drinking and talking, too much talking, when they go back to Parliament and their everyday lives, because they wouldn't fit (because they wouldn't let them fit and Ed chooses not to think about why.)  
One time, he gets drunk enough to ask Osborne what he actually thinks of Cameron and Osborne just looks for a long moment, his head tilted to the side and then says _Dave thinks he's doing the right thing._  
Ed snorts because he knows Cameron hates him and when he says as much, Osborne shakes his head and says _No, he's scared. Scared that he won't get the chance to save everyone and that you could destroy it._

 

Ed laughs because he's drunk and it's funny and it's the drink that makes him lean in and say "He's got you, he doesn't need to worry about saving the country. Workaholic right-hand man."  
Osborne laughs, and Ed calls him an idiot and makes them both laugh more because they won't remember some of this in the morning and he can pretend he doesn't remember the part where their hands brush or where, halfway down the corridor to their hotel rooms, they end up slumped against one another, with Ed convincing himself that he's drunk more than he has and that that's the only reason Osborne's head is on his shoulder.   
It's too much of a habit, as they head up through the years-as they have their children and their jobs and their lives-but they never talk about it, and they never plan it, and it's this one thing that's just theirs'.  
*  
George knows Balls didn't hate him, but he lets him think it. He saw the way Balls let his eyes flicker over him, the moment their fingers tightened around one another for that second before Balls yanked his hand away and George had studied him in that moment, the way those eyes darted as he glanced away, and he knew then that he was going to let Balls think what he wanted about this moment.  
If Balls wants to think he hated him, that's what George will let him believe and he'll let Balls believe that George believes the same thing.  
The drinks they share are the moments George holds onto when they're facing each other, David's arm brushing his as they hurl the truth at Labour, as they fight a battle that's different from the one George feels, waging a silent war, when he and Balls are sipping drinks, but then they're not on opposing sides.  
Balls is annoying, he tells himself. He's too honest and doesn't care what people think and lets his opinions dart everywhere and George tells himself it annoys him, when his lips twitch in a smile and he finds himself sipping his drink slower just to hold onto the words for a little longer.   
Balls is annoying, he tells himself, but that's not what he thinks when they find themselves talking for too long into the night, over the years, past weddings and births and too, too many government arguments that make the whole night seem heavier.   
Balls tells him about being pushed about at school in that typical Balls-way, _doesn't matter, it was in the fucking past, who cares_ , and George tells him about the Gideon situation and Balls snorts but then lets his hand settle on his wrist and says _You look like a George, to be honest_ , like he doesn't know that George will hold onto those words, and George knows he'll pretend he doesn't.  
One night, Balls mutters something about _this fucking thing with speaking tripping_ him up, and when George just listens-sometimes the best way to get Balls to talk is just to listen and George pretends he doesn't know that-Balls sighs and lets a few things slip out about _stammering_ and _classroom laughter_ and _not too bad, but just now and then_ -and George reaches out without thinking and they've both had enough to drink that it doesn't matter when his hand rests on Balls' shoulder and he says, without the figures or the facts clinging to his voice for once, "You handle it so much better than I would."  
Balls would push him away usually, but they pretend not to know that, the same way they pretend not to notice when they sit in each other's hotel rooms, too drunk to pretend, flipping through TV channels and letting their shoulders brush in these few moments when the facts and figures don't have to be there over what they want.  
(George doesn't let himself think about what that is. He's not that brave, and that's one of the few things he does admit to himself.)  
When George is Chancellor, they can rib each other a little more, Balls offering to pay for the drinks because the taxpayer will pay for everything else and they can nudge each other's arms and pretend it's just business. They snigger about the headlines of David and Nick being in a marriage- _though it's fucking nauseating_ , Balls points out bluntly, _They're one step away from giving each other a promise ring_ -and roll their eyes over the way David and Miliband throw insults at each other across the despatch chamber, the words becoming more and more desperate each week, as if the two of them think that whatever point they've seized on this time will be enough to cover the fact that Miliband's the only one who makes David laugh like that and David's the only one that brings that gawky smirk to Miliband's mouth, like a schoolkid who feels like an idiot and doesn't ever want it to stop.  
They only talk about it with each other and Balls rolls his eyes and says _God, why can't people figure things out?_ and they both pretend not to hear the irony of it all.   
George knows David too well and he knows that feeling Miliband gets when that smirk spreads across his face when David's thrown something particularly clever at him, because it's the feeling he gets when he's sitting across from Balls, with them mercilessly throwing taunts at each other's financial leanings at one another, the drinks between them as a barrier they both pretend to believe in.  
They talk about the others because that way they don't have to talk about themselves and it's easier this way. They watch the way David and Miliband eye each other when they think the other isn't looking and they roll their eyes and Balls kicks him under the table when they're all at conferences and they notice the way David and Miliband dissolve a little under the weight of some drinks and the way their arms linger and neither pulls away. They watch and don't pay attention to the way their own arms are doing the same.  
When George thinks of all the years they've spent doing this and mentions it to Balls, Balls snorts and says _God, don't remind me how old I'm getting_ , and George laughs and pretends not to remember the first meeting like it was yesterday, pretends not to wonder how it can be that all these years are there between them and there's still a fear that seizes his chest when he opens his mouth to make all this real between them. He pretends to himself and he does such a good job that he almost believes it.  
Sometimes, when they walk back to their hotel rooms, they linger for a moment, their hands brushing each other's elbows and George pretends that Balls' eyes don't linger on his mouth for a moment and inside his hotel room, he pretends he doesn't wonder what it would be like.  
*  
When Balls loses his seat, George paces the room and stares at his phone and tries to think of a way to push figures into this message because that's how they talk, that's how they work, that's how they are and then he remembers that that isn't how they are anymore.  
He could not send the message. He could keep those years a memory, something tucked between them, something just for them. Something he could never touch again, something to protect him from wanting more.  
But he thinks of tonight and then he thinks of how it could so nearly have been the other way round. And then he thinks of the look on David's face when he heard that Miliband was resigning and the way the words crumbled in his mouth, the man who'd just won what he should want most in the world, the way all his words had been reduced to _B-but it's Ed..._  
And he thinks of the way he'd stepped forward then, let his hand rest on David's arm and in that moment, in the rawness of victory and of getting what they'd always wanted and maybe losing it too, had said "Maybe you should talk to him." And when David had opened his mouth to pretend a little longer, George had closed his eyes, unable to stand it and said "David, you need to talk to him. And Nick, but-but Ed. You need to speak to-" And then he'd looked at him and said "I know, OK?" And he'd left the office with David staring after him, with those words breathing in the air between them, and he'd known. He'd known more than David could ever guess.  
He thinks of it and then he sends the text. He keeps it sweet and short but he says _I'm sorry_ a lot. And then he tells him where he'll be in a couple of hours, at the Portcullis bar where nobody else will be right now. He doesn't say it out loud but he lets Balls know where he'll be. And then he sends the message and knows he's broken the rule and that it's planned, more planned than any of their other meetings have been, and he thinks that he doesn't mind.  
When David pokes his head round the door and mutters that he's spoken to Nick and that they're meeting later in the week, George nods. And then when David coughs and shuffles his feet and says _And-um-I've spoken to Ed. And-well-we're going to-talk tonight. Just me and him, you understand-_ and George nods and says "Yes, of course" and lets himself smile at the way David's pulling at his fingers like a schoolboy and the blush on his cheeks and the fact that for a moment, neither of them is pretending.  
*  
Ed is pondering exactly how dire the future is going to be when the text comes through and he stares at the message for a long moment and then he swallows hard, because this isn't them. This isn't him and Osborne. This isn't them.  
But then there isn't a them anymore. There isn't a lot of things anymore. There's just him and Osborne and this message. This message that, no matter how hard Ed searches, doesn't contain a fact or a figure or a single line he can seize on and twist into something else, something that's just business.  
The words are there in his mind, like always, and they could pretend. He could send back the usual message. It could just be business. It could just be part of the game.   
He closes his eyes and thinks of how the game has fallen apart today and then he thinks of Miliband's face as he phoned Cameron. Of how he'd looked at his leader, someone who'd lost almost everything, and seen, behind the defeat and exhaustion and the sheer loss, that twitch at the corner of his mouth as he spoke to Cameron, because what else was there now, but what was real?  
The lies had crumbled away and there was something real there, and Ed's fucking terrified of it.  
But he thinks of those years, those years of drinks and secret smiles and business and figures and those touches that last a little too long, and then he thinks of how all that's crumbled away and all that's left is this.  
And that's not all that's left because it's more real than any of the rest of it and for that alone, Ed might as well grab at it with both hands. They might both plummet but on the other hand, they might both grab on.  
If there's one thing Ed's good at, it's seeing when there's something left to hold onto.  
So he sends a message back, letting him know that yes, he'll be there. Soon. And he doesn't say anything about work or numbers, or figures, or anything but the fact he'll be there with him. Soon.  
And then when he reads the message over, he grits his teeth and makes himself take out the surname and type the one he's never let himself call him. He swallows hard but he makes himself do it and the name _George_ is staring up at him from the screen, something real and shining there in the dark.  
He waits for the moment to go back, to push this away, to hide back under the blanket of facts and figures between them. He could do it for a moment. He could step back.  
And then he thinks of all the times over the years, all the stepping back outside hotel rooms, all the moments that hands have fallen away, all those seconds snatched of those dark eyes, before he's had to look away. He thinks of Miliband's face when he told Ed this afternoon he's meeting with Cameron tonight _-just, juth-just me and him, you know, um-_ and that blush that had been tickling his cheeks, that schoolboy grin at his mouth, that confusion and hope and all those too-real feelings crossing his face.  
He thinks of it all and then he presses the button and sends the message. He gets up and heads for the door, heads for the outside and for Osborne, for George, for something that he doesn't know. He doesn't know what it will be, but whatever it is, it's started being real. Somewhere out there, he and George are walking out to the same place, to the same thing and neither of them know what it'll be and both of them know it's real.  
They've done enough pretending.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment if you like it :)


End file.
